Heaven was Blue - RoderickWeston
by paintmysoulgold
Summary: What quantity of fear could he force down his victim's throat until they choked, gasped, and begged for death? At what point did survival instinct turn into mercy plea? Title from Poe's Alone - Thank you Emily for the beta! - Love to hear any feedback! Leave a comment or you can add/message me at enchantedemeraldforest[dot]tumblr[dot]com if you want to chat!
1. Chapter 1

Roderick couldn't feel anything when the spray of hot water hit him. His skin was so cold that as the water warmed him it began to feel like a hurricane of little needles piercing his skin. Bright blue eyes flashed in his mind and he stifled an angry scream. He'd done as Joe asked, always done what Joe asked. Without him, Joe would have nothing. Joe wouldn't have this house, his wife, or his kid. What did Roderick get in return? Dreams and fucking illusions, he got put in his place.

Roderick got nightmares, ones that didn't make any sense.

The darkness was always there and closing in on him, it was oppressive. He somehow knew he was running out of time, that he needed to find something. That kid from the FBI was always there. Smiling at him through bloody teeth, so sure of himself.

Roderick never had nightmares before Joe. He wasn't like the other children; children who were afraid of the dark or the boogeyman and wouldn't let their mothers out of their site. He hadn't been afraid of anything before, ever. Until he met Joe.

Watching Joe cut into that girl; he'd been afraid for the first time, truly afraid, and it was intoxicating. The feeling dulled too quickly. It left a void; like a black hole swirling inside of him. It ate away at his other emotions until he craved only to fill that space with fear. Inflicting pain on others, soaking up the emotions that came so easily to them. Terror was a beautiful thing; slowly breaking down a person's hope until there was nothing left but dust.

At first Roderick had been hypnotized by Joe's antiquated style, his signature at the bottom of the page, it was all so artistic. It became obvious once Joe was gone, that the signature held him back. By himself Roderick could do anything, be him it wasn't about the stabbing, the breath of life and death, or the fucking heartbeat. It didn't matter how you disposed of them; reducing them to ash and letting them float away on a breeze, or returning them to the earth and letting mother nature feast on their remains.

For Roderick it wasn't about the planning, killing or the disposal. He had no signature, no ritual.

It was about fear. What quantity of fear could he force down his victim's throat until they choked, gasped, and begged for death? At what point did survival instinct turn into mercy plea? Roderick lived for that moment, in between the seconds, when a person's soul ceased to occupy their body. Not the moment he took their life, that was another category of release, this was the moment that they first felt the grinding and final realization that there was no hope left. When all that stood between them and forever was Roderick. His victim's loss of self helped fill the vacuous darkness in his chest.

Lately, he'd been so wrapped up in Joe's plan and dealing with all these unpredictable elements, that he hadn't been able to take care of his own needs. Roderick could feel that hole inside of him like an open wound. Sticky black essence leaking out of him and coating everything he touched. He wasn't a failure, he hadn't failed Joe, Joe had failed him. Joe had sent him to find out where Claire was and in doing so had put Roderick on the radar of that little shit of a kid. Hardy's sidekick, boy-wonder.

Weston had smirked and spit his name back at him like he knew something. Roderick wanted so badly to hurt him, to twist his will. He wanted nothing more than to crack that porcelain veneer, to hurt this boy in ways he hadn't hurt yet. He wanted so badly he ached with it, but this wasn't for him. This blue-eyed beauty was promised to another, as was everything else. Roderick had given Joe everything and Joe had given him nothing!

The water ran cold. This wasn't his shower at home, endless hot water. This was the mansion, Joe's mansion. Joe had just gotten his wife back, he had everything. Roderick had a cold shower. He stepped out and wrapped the towel around his waist. He checked the locks again and the cabinets, you could never be sure with all the freaks around this place.

Mirrors weren't his enemy but he avoided looking at the thing just the same. Roderick knew what he would see. A sea of blue. Blue eyes that weren't his own. The ones he saw now were full of missed opportunity. Teasing him, goading him on. Roderick hadn't had the chance to see those eyes flicker and give up. He wasn't given the time to break Weston right, a sloppy rush job for such a loyal thing. He'd been ready to die with a resolute purpose and Roderick couldn't sleep or breathe or blink without aching for that infuriating boy.

Roderick knew Weston was a liar. Weston was the only one who could know where Claire was. Roderick had the intel so it was easy to have the boy figured out. He hadn't expected or accounted for those blue eyes and now he was paying a terrible price. It felt like he'd opened Pandora's box. Roderick pulled on his uniform slowly, methodically. It was more than his job, it was his persona, his mask. The last element was that shining gold star. It had to be perfect, always perfect.

Joe would make this up to him, he would give him Weston. Joe owed Roderick that.

Once Weston was his, well, he would make sure that his end came in the slowest possible way. He'd make Weston his pet, break him. When every memorable trace of the former FBI agent was gone he'd make the young man beg for the sweet release of death.

Roderick adjusted his belt and looked up at Weston's eyes in the mirror.

"I'm coming for ya boy."


	2. Chapter 2

Weston's skin was dyed purple and yellow with bruises, pale white strips of untouched flesh peeked through and begged for Roderick's attention. The boys eyes were still colored with defiance, no longer smouldering blue coals, but apparitions of their former selves. Weston's jaw clenched tight when Roderick teased rough fingers across sensitive abused skin.

Roderick had belted the boy down to an old table in an abandoned house that a friend of his father's used to own. Lyle was a good guy, a fishing buddy of his pops, he didn't take kindly to the way Roderick's dad roughed up his son. Lyle was a good 'ole boy at heart though so he always kept his trap shut.

Weston was completely bare and stretched across the table, hands and feet secured with rope Roderick had salvaged from his cruiser before he ditched it. The FBI would be looking for their golden boy and Roderick had no intention of being interrupted or rushed like he had been last time. Weston was all his and bit by precious bit he was dismantling his new toy. When he finally had all the shiney plastic pieces laid out in front of him, he would start to smash them one by one. After that the fun would begin, putting this toy back together just how he wanted it to be.

Roderick had already crushed Weston's notion of security. Twice. He'd easily bypassed the FBI for the second time when he'd slipped through Weston's fingers at the sheriff station. The whole place was in an uproar and it was as easy as cutting through butter to circle back and take their prodigal son right from under their noses.

Weston squirmed uncomfortably and brought Roderick out of his reverie. It was intoxicating to have his nightmare helpless in front of him. He'd always heard his old man say that you should 'confront your demons' and doing so was proving quite satisfying. This creature that had haunted his dreams was now his to command. His to possess in every sense of the word. In time Weston would enjoy that possession, would beg for Roderick. He had been a fool to think that Joe would grant him that kind of power. He was never going to hand over Weston, after all, Joe believed that Hardy needed his little sidekick. Joe though Hardy couldn't be a hero without boy wonder here following him around. Well too bad for Joe, Roderick didn't care anymore. Fuck Joe.

Roderick had spent years putting everything together, building an empire for Joe from the ground up. For what? So that Joe could stall at the last minute and ruin everything? To put everything on hold right before the finish line, Roderick couldn't stand for the stagnancy. Joe blamed him for the missteps, missteps that wouldn't have happened if they'd been moving forward. This wasn't his fault! This was all Joe's fault. Everything was shit now. His grip tightened around the small paring knife he was holding. He pressed down against the soft skin of Weston's abdomen and flicked his wrist. Such an easy thing to do. The bright red blood was a stark contrast against the canvas of bruised flesh.

Weston could only manage a small whimper. The boys eyes were tired and Roderick knew this was the beginning of the end. Mike Weston was starting to break, to submit. Everything about subtle tick of his breaths and the light fading from those blue eyes let Roderick know, as plain as reading a book. Hope was slowly draining out and soon this living corpse would be his in body and spirit.

Roderick had been working him over since they'd arrived at the abandoned house 26 hours ago. He'd let Weston close his eyes and drift off here and there. The breaks gave Roderick time to monitor the news. He couldn't help but chuckle, the media thought the cult had the young FBI agent. He imagined the FBI standing around once they took down Joe with everyone scratching their heads. Joe would be the first to figure it out, and then Hardy. They'd both know that he won. Checkmate. Not because he had Weston; but because, even if they were able to recapture their lost youth, he'd still belong to Roderick.

He had blood on his hands now and he loved the slick slide of it between his fingers. Roderick had been careful not to draw any blood up to this point. You had to tenderize your meat before you seasoned it. It was important now, for Weston to see his own blood on Roderick's hands. Weston's resolve was incinerated and turning to ash. Roderick turned the knife over in front of Weston's eyes. Weston had learned within the first few hours not to look away. Roderick reveled in the fear and despair now living inside of Weston's eyes. It was rising to the surface, coming ashore with the tide and Roderick couldn't get enough.

"You know what you need to say. You can make all this pain stop." Roderick kept his voice low and solid.

He had given Weston a way out when they'd started their little game. He knew Weston wouldn't use it then. He was filled to the brim with too much pride and soaked in lofty, heroic ideals. Roderick was sure Weston understood now, what could be taken from a man in 26 hours. Roderick offered him salvation now, and he knew Weston would take it. He watched Weston's eyes close tightly and Roderick honestly had to admire how much of that proud boy was still in there.

"Please..." Weston's voice was so small and quiet that it sent chills of excitement coursing through Roderick. Yet, they both knew it wasn't enough. He laid the knife against Weston's stomach again and watched another bright red line blossom next to the first. Weston's body trembled and jerked.

"Please!" Weston's voice came louder, filling the small room with the sweet sound of anguish.

"Please what Mikey?" Roderick wasn't looking for volume, he was looking for surrender.

"Please...help me?"

A grin broke across Roderick's face. He had to congratulate himself on just how damn good he was. He loved to put the young man through hell but he was practically giddy with excitement about the next phase of this.

"Please help me what?" Roderick stilled himself, he had to be patient or he'd ruin it.

Weston took a shaky breath and Roderick watched his eyes fill with confusion and then self loathing.

"Please help me, sir." Weston's voice broke and the beauty of it filled Roderick with a sense of calm purpose. It was as if he could hear Weston's spirit breaking.

"Well gosh Michael, all you had to do was ask." Roderick smiled and moved around the table.

He carefully bandaged the two shallow cuts he'd made in Weston's stomach. He was gentle as he untied the ropes binding Weston's wrists and ankles and loosened the belt around his chest. When Roderick moved to help him sit up Weston screamed. It was throaty, raw and shaking with pain. His trembling hand shot out and he grasped Roderick's arm for support. Through all of the beating and even through the cutting Weston had been stubbornly quiet. So, for him to cry out now was all too gratifying. Roderick could practically hear Weston's teeth grinding against each other in distress.

"I can't! Please, I can't." Weston leaned heavily against Roderick, his arms wrapped loosely around himself. The feel of him, the smell of his sweat, made Roderick's heart race. He had to focus to control his breathing as his excitement level spiked. Weston's shoulders jerked and his body began to shake. His breaths came in short clipped puffs and Roderick quickly realised, much to his enjoyment, the boy was crying. Mike Weston, FBI agent, was breaking down and crying in his arms. If only Joe had let him take care of Weston the right way the first time. They would have easily gotten Claire's location.

Roderick knew now that things happened for a was nothing Joe and his cult could offer him that would be better than this. He would be the one to decide when he was done with Weston, not Joe.

"Don't worry boy, I gotcha." Roderick stepped to the side of Weston and lifted him off the table and into his arms. Weston whimpered and was tense for a moment before he relaxed against Roderick's chest. Roderick carried him through the dilapidated old house to a room he'd made up in the back. A room with no windows and a brand new lock on the door. He laid Weston down on the twin bed against the far wall and smiled at him. Weston avoided his eyes for a second but then met his gaze hesitantly.

"Get some rest kid." Roderick turned and walked toward the door.

"Thank you." Weston's quiet voice carried across the small space easily and Roderick knew. Mike Weston was his.


	3. Chapter 3

Roderick was angry. He flipped the pancake with surgical precision and scowled at the golden brown mass. He was angry because despite his thoughts about conquering his nightmares he'd still been haunted by them. The darkness was still there and those infuriating blue eyes were still pinned on him. Joe's, wonderful fucking, voice was added to the mix now. Repeating his name, Roderick, in that accent. Roderick, Rod-er-ick over and over again. When he'd woken up abruptly he'd wanted to storm through the dusty old house, pull that new lock off the door, and just kill that little shit of a kid.

Michael.

Roderick had a bad habit of letting his impulses control him, he knew that. Hell, everyone knew it. It was his fatal flaw. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to throw away all his hard work. Twenty-six hours he'd spent torturing the hope and light out of that young man. He wasn't going to let that go to waste now. There was another reason, one that Roderick couldn't put his finger on, a reason he felt better off not knowing exactly. Roderick comforted himself with the thought of Hardy trying to fix this broken mess. Or better yet, maybe he'd get Mike to kill Hardy. Wouldn't that be an interesting chapter for Joe's book? Sidekick tuned killer. Roderick liked the sound of that.

He put the plate of pancakes on the tray and smiled at them. His anger was slowly subsiding as he imagined the broken boy laying and waiting for him in the back room. He walked softly through the house and opened the door slowly. It wasn't like he expected Mikey to be in fighting form waiting to ambush him, but he was at least trying to be cautious. The FBI agent was on the bed in the corner, right where Roderick left him. Mike was laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, with one hand folded protectively over the bandages on his stomach.

"Breakfast time Michael," Roderick said. "Wouldn't want ya wasting away on my, would I?"

Roderick sat the service tray on the nightstand next to the bed and moved Mike's hand to inspect the bandages. Mike was still, he didn't even flinch when Roderick touched him. He had to give the boy some credit. He was a tough little shit.

"Eat up. I'll be back in a minute to change those bandages." Roderick was at the door when Mike's voice filled the room, crystal clear.

"What was your father like?" Mike asked. "I'm guessing he wasn't sunshine and rainbows..."

Roderick stopped cold, hand on the doorknob. Of everything he'd accounted for he hadn't expected the steel of Mike's tone. The broken boy he had laid in that bed 8 hours ago seemed to have disappeared entirely. Roderick felt the muscle in his jaw tick, he wiped his hand over his face slowly and sighed. He'd been ready for the rebuilding phase but if Mike needed more breaking first...well Roderick could oblige. He stepped out of the room and locked the door. He would still let Mike get a meal, but after that it was time to go back to the table.

Roderick retrieved the first aid kit from the kitchen. His eyes scanned the room and studied the makeshift torture station. The blood looked dry and the belts and ropes were still there, dangling and waiting for him to give them purpose. What was that kid's angle anyway? Who did he think he was? Did he think this was a fucking game? Roderick was getting angry again. That little shit should be scared of him! Joe should be scared of him. Neither one had the damn right to be inside his head, taunting him while he slept.

Roderick heard a small snapping noise, he looked down at the first aid kit in his hand and glared. He'd broken the handle on the dinky, plastic box. He rolled his eyes at his own behavior, what if the kid's angle was to get under his skin? If it was, then Roderick was letting him, Roderick was playing right into his little game.

He plastered on his best smile and walked back to the locked door. When he opened it, Mike was putting his half-empty plate back on the service tray with a grimace.

Roderick made quick work of changing the bandages, Mike was thankfully quiet. Roderick didn't _want_ to be so easy to piss off but he would not be entertaining questions about his father either.

Roderick whistled to himself as he put the medical supplies back into the white, plastic box. He stopped abruptly when he felt fingertips graze his arm. Instinctively his other hand hovered over his pistol. But the fingers just kept brushing lightly over the soft hair of his forearm.

Why are you being such a mess? Roderick asked himself. He forced himself to look up at Mike, focusing to keep his gaze steady. Mike's eyes were hard, the antithesis of his feather soft touch.

"Thank you sir," Mike said. His voice was soft and submissive like it should be but... Roderick couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that bubbled inside of him as he stared into those cold eyes. They promised many returns on all the pain that had been wrought upon them. That look scared Roderick. It was a look that Joe gave him, one that stripped away the layers of bullshit that people wrapped around themselves. Roderick was certain that those bright, blue eyes could see right through him.

Mike leaned up slowly, haunting gaze never leaving Roderick's. Mike's body trembled with the effort but his eyes showed no sign of pain or distress. When he was sitting up fully, their faces were close enough that Roderick could feel the warm puff of Mike's breath. Inches separated them. Roderick felt like he was flying dangerously close to the sun. Mike shifted forward slightly and Roderick lost their staring contest. His eyes flicked down sharply to Mike's mouth. Yes he was, definitely, far too close to the sun then. But oh, how he wanted to be burned. That intangible reason for not wanting to kill the boy was now hovering right in front of him.

Something, somewhere, inside of him was screaming. His self-preservation instincts were on high alert, but a more urgent voice was asking him, what could this injured boy really do?

Roderick was impulsive.

Mike leaned forward again. He slowly closed the gap between them and pressed a searing hot kiss onto Roderick's lips. It was burning hot and consumed Roderick like wild fire. Mike pulled back a fraction of an inch but Roderick wanted so much more. He grabbed the back of Mike's head and pulled Mike's mouth back against his with such force that he could taste the metallic tang of blood as his tongue invaded Mike's mouth. The kiss was rough and perfect. Warning bells were ringing in Roderick's head, too perfect.

The rush of blood, the kiss, it quieted everything in his head to a washed out buzz. A faint static in the background of his mind. Mike's mouth was hot and slick and everything those cold, blue eyes promised in Roderick's nightmares. His fingers clenched in the boys short hair and he could feel the smile Mike pressed hard against his mouth.

Roderick heard the gunshot but he didn't feel anything, couldn't feel anything. The sound easily broke through the static as Mike pulled his hard smile away from their kiss. Roderick hadn't felt it before but the smile belonged to those cold eyes.

Impulsive.

Roderick always knew it was his fatal flaw.

~fin.


End file.
